


The Queen Who Knelt

by Army0fBees



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but Elia will probably feature later because I'm so gay for her), AU-No Tourney at Harrenhal, Aerys II invades the North, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I love Brandon but he deserves what's coming for him, Lyanna is the Queen Who Knelt, M/M, POV Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar and Elia never married, Rhaegar is too witty for his own good, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:50:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Army0fBees/pseuds/Army0fBees
Summary: When King Aerys II kills Rickard Stark for suspected treason, Brandon's rallied bannermen are crushed by the Crown Prince's forces, and the rest of the Stark brothers are missing or presumed dead, Lyanna is left with an army at Winterfell's gates and a burning desire for revenge—but all she can do is surrender.Or, Lyanna wears a different crown of winter roses, and both she and Rhaegar learn not to underestimate each other.Lyanna Stark deserves much more than the short life as a manic pixie dream girl and plot device that GRR Martin gave her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey gals and gays ! This chapter is un beta'd, so any mistakes are all mine. I'm looking for a beta for future chapters, so if you're interested, lmk—I'd love to beta some work in return. This fic probably won't have an update schedule yet as it's finals season, but I will try to post chapters regularly. Content warnings will be added as needed in certain chapters, but please let me know if I fail to flag any potentially triggering information. Comments/criticism/advice/kudos welcome! You're welcome to PM me with plot ideas because as of now the plot is very fluid.
> 
> That being said, enjoy this overdramatic trash. <3
> 
> Everything belongs to GRR Martin.

For all the talk about the Starks’ honor, it did nothing but hasten their deaths when war came to Winterfell.  
  
After over a year of conflict with the South, Lyanna Stark learned that war had nothing to do with glory; it was only revenge that drove the swords of men. It was revenge that caused her father’s death at the hands of King Aerys II—revenge the mad King enacted for some imagined conspiracy. Lyanna had hardly had time to wonder if the allegations against her father held true and he really had sought to overthrow the crown before revenge had found another victim in her eldest brother.  
  
It was honor that Brandon Stark spoke about on the eve of his coronation, but all the jewels in the Seven Kingdoms could not trick Lyanna into believing the golden crown set upon his dark curls was molded from anything but revenge. For all his quarrels with their father when he was alive, Rickard Stark was all Brandon would speak about after his death: _“My father,”_ he had said to his bannermen, _“Would have risked his life to fight for any one of you had you been murdered by the Southron Lizard King.”_ The question he left unasked—the one that Lyanna knew spurred the bannermen to loyalty more than Brandon’s impassioned words—was _which one of you is next to be accused by the King?_ Lyanna closed her eyes. Beautiful, terrible, impulsive Brandon. Lyanna hoped to the gods that he was not lying face-down in the mud on some unmarked battlefield, his carefully-crafted crown dark with blood. Brandon deserved more than that. He deserved a death worthy of a song, full of glory and honor and all of the things a King should be—but most of all, he deserved to live, if not only for the dozens of women who would doubtless think him theirs to mourn. Lyanna gripped the hairbrush until her knuckles whitened. _‘He is not dead,’_ she thought to herself, despite the evidence that pointed to the contrary: the Targaryen army amassed at the gates of Winterfell. It had been three moons since the army had first arrived, marching with the arrogance achieved only by a group of men taking something that was not theirs. Three moons. Lyanna had always begged her father to let her help him run Winterfell, but she had made a mockery of herself in a mere three moons when actually faced with the task; it was not honor that drove her to surrender to the besiegers but something much more base: hunger. Lyanna dropped the hairbrush with a clatter, a wry smile twisting at her face. Hungry and defeated she may be, but not even the she-wolf could escape this war without a thirst for revenge. In the mirror, her face looked pale and gaunt, cut by hunger and worry—but there was something else there, too. Anger. She smoothed a hand over her mass of long, dark curls, pleased that they sprung up once again as soon as she unhanded them. Brandon used to say that Lyanna’s hair was the one thing Aegon the Conquerer could have never beaten into submission—but though he teased her endlessly, she knew he loved her refusal to tame them. _“It’s the wolf- blood, Lya,”_ he’d said once, laughing, when she accused him of being a man-whore— _“You’ve got it in your hair, and I in my cock!”_ She’d hit him for that, hard, in between his legs, but even when doubled over in pain he couldn’t stop chuckling. Today she wore her hair down, tumbling rebelliously around her face. She hoped if the Old Gods had taken Brandon, he was watching, laughing at her final homage.  
  
To meet the Crown Prince and quite possibly her end, she wore a dress. It seemed better, in her opinion, to make her final stand in her typical tunic and trousers—the ones that had belonged to Benjen before he outgrew them—but her handmaid had pulled the unworn gown from deep within her wardrobe and offered it wordlessly. It had been her last nameday gift from her father—one appropriate for a nearly-grown girl of four and ten. Now her fifteenth nameday had come and gone in the months of the siege with nothing but a stem of flowers from the kindly gardner and a dagger from Martyn Cassel, but she still had this last gift. Rickard had known that Lyanna would hardly like a gown as a nameday present, so he tailored it to her taste as best he could. It was an elegant gray that almost shimmered in the morning light of her room, embroidered with running silver direwolves on the skirt that seemed to dance as she moved, their sapphire eyes glinting. The high neck was strewn with sapphires, and the tight sleeves were capped with white ermine fur—how her father had acquired such treasures, she could not imagine. The bodice was tight and plain, but even with her growing breasts it hung loose on her waist. The cloak she donned would have been her maiden cloak, if not for the war. It was embroidered with the Stark sigil by her mother, before she had died, on heavy silk, trimmed with equally as soft but not nearly as costly fur. Lyanna would have worn it to another set of chains—probably held by Robert Baratheon—had her world not crumbled. She supposed she had the Mad King to thank for her marital freedom, though the fate that awaited her might be much worse.  
  
With a sharp sigh, Lyanna clasped the cloak around her throat and checked herself in the glass one more time (more a stall for time than anything; Lyanna had never cared much for the state of her appearance). Ironically, the day she would be shamed the most would be the height of her beauty (but wasn’t it always so, with maidens on their marriage days? This was just a different sort of shame).  
  
She cut an imposing figure with her harsh colors and somber face, but the gown was almost too ladylike for Lyanna’s liking, so, with a huff, she pulled on her muddy riding boots over her stockings, relishing in the feel of the worn leather hugging her feet.  
Just as she stood to exit, a soft knock came at the door. It was probably Martyn come to fetch her, to ensure that she had the dagger strapped to her calf (she did, and another in each boot besides). When she opened it, however, she was greeted with the weathered face and white hair of the gardener.  
  
“Elric,” she said, with some surprise.  
  
“Lyanna.” He inclined his head slightly with a smile, long ago having lost the honorific _Lady_ when addressing Lyanna, per her request.  
  
Suddenly, her heart wrenched. This could very well be the final time she saw the old man. “Have you come to say goodbye?”  
  
The smile wrinkling his eyes grew deeper. “I will be there to say goodbye when the time comes, Lyanna, but this is not it. One can surrender with words without surrendering the heart, little one, and dragons grow weak in the cold.” It was the same mysticism with which he often spoke, and, as usual, his words sent a shiver down Lyanna’s spine. If anyone held the power of prophecy, it was Winterfell’s gardener, and not some silly Septon in the south. Elric lifted his arms then, offering something to her. “A winter crown for a Winter Queen,” he quipped.  
  
It was woven of winter roses, pale blue buds unfurled just enough drink in the morning sunlight. Winter roses had always been Lyanna’s favorite, and Lyanna smiled warmly at the man despite thinking _‘I am no queen.'_  
  
“Thank you,” she breathed, reaching for the crown, just as Elric murmured—  
  
“Careful.”  
  
Lyanna looked down, and, indeed, the crown was peppered with the long, hooked thorns that grew naturally on the stems of winter roses. It was only on the inside of the crown that the stems has been carefully stripped of their thorns. Lyanna lowered her head wordlessly and Elric placed the wreath gently upon her untethered curls.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispered, again, an odd tightness in her throat.  
  
Elric only bowed, and winked before he turned away, leaving the delicate scent of flowers in his wake.  
  
The crown felt heavy on Lyanna’s head, almost as if it were a real thing of gold and jewels. The roses almost seemed to breath, sinking claws into her hair and brushing her scalp despite Elric’s best efforts. It was a beautiful thing. _‘Wars have been fought over less,’_ she mused, and what was a dead crown of cold metal compared to the living creature clutching her head?  
  
It was Martyn that came for her next, hand stubbornly set on his sheathed sword. He gave her a long look, then led her down to the courtyard where her mare waited patiently with several members of her guard. She noticed, almost smugly, that Maester Walys was missing.  
  
Martyn didn’t speak to her until she reached her horse.  
  
“Your Grace,” he began, and Lyanna sent him an irritated look. He shrugged good-naturedly and continued. “Do you have my gift?”  
  
The dagger. Lyanna smiled. “I do, and several others besides.”  
  
Relief colored Martyn’s features, and he rubbed his freshly-shaved stubble. “If anything happens, Your Grace, run to the wolfswood. Don’t look back.”  
  
Lyanna would have protested, but she knew her words would fall on closed ears. Instead, she fixed Martyn with a fierce stare. “It won’t come to that.”  
  
Martyn only nodded distrustfully and bowed before he turned to mount his horse (she couldn’t count the number of times she’d yelled at him for attempting to help her onto her horse). She still wasn’t used to her friends bowing to her, and she would likely not have time to grow accustomed to it before the Crown Prince stripped her of a title that was never hers to begin with.  
  
Steeling herself, Lyanna mounted her mare in a fluid movement, settling her skirts around her. She had ensured that the beast had enough to eat, even when she herself did not, and even now the beast carried her with a quiet strength that made Lyanna’s lips turn up into a momentary smile. With a nod at the six men lined in a _V_ behind her, Lyanna prompted her horse into a trot as she exited Winterfell’s gates, then a sprint, and finally a gallop. The wind carded brisk fingers through her hair, but for all its efforts it could not pull the crown from her head. She heard irritated shouts from behind her, but did not slow. If this was her last ride, she would enjoy it, and her men would do very well to keep up with her.  
  
The scant quarter mile to the arranged meeting location was hardly enough time for Lyanna or her mare to work into a sweat, and she found herself disappointed as she reigned in her horse and waited for her men to catch up before proceeding for the last hundred yards. Martyn, panting, shot her one of his angry ‘you-could-have-gotten-yourself-killed’ looks when he and his men stopped just behind her, and in return she flashed him a cheeky grin.  
  
But then she turned back to the hill where they were to meet the Dragon Prince and his henchmen, and her smile dropped. Forming her muscles into anything but anger seemed an effort she could ill afford.  
  
She did not look back at Winterfell as she marched her horse forward.  
  
She did not look at anything but the hill, where the silhouettes of six riders began to crest the swell of the earth, still too far away to offer insight into their features.  
  
Dread clenched in Lyanna’s gut, a roiling, twisting thing hand-in-hand with shame and guilt. Perhaps there would soon be a Queen Who Knelt to accompany Torrhen Stark in the afterworld.  
  
Each shift of her horse brought her closer to her surrender, closer to the revenge that she would never get.  
  
Eighty feet.  
  
Lyanna breathed deeply, relishing in the sting of the cold morning air in her nose.  
  
Fifty.  
  
_Dragons grow weak in the cold._  
  
Forty.  
  
She was from the North, and (thirty feet) the one thing she would never do was forget. Hunger for revenge took Lyanna Stark as easily as it did the Stark men on the battlefield in the Reach—as smoothly as it had taken her possibly-dead brother and his possibly-lost crown. But the difference between Lyanna and the vengeful men who dealt battle with the same self-assured privilege that led them through the world was that Lyanna had been hurt by a man’s honor too many times to count, and she was wary. The honor of men was a flighty thing—rash and boastful and used only when convenient. It was honor that drove men to keep their boots pressed to women’s necks. Honor that drove them to kill as revenge for the bruises they themselves left on their maidens’ throats. Honor that passed the sentence; honor that swung the sword; honor that killed her father and drove her brother to ruin. Twenty feet. For all of the talk about the Starks’ honor, it did nothing but hasten their deaths when war came to Winterfell—so in this game, Lyanna Stark refused to be a pawn: she would prove just how precarious men’s honor was, and she would exact her revenge with her eyes wide open.  
  
But what was the difference between honor and revenge?  
  
Fifteen feet away from the Crown Prince with a crown of winter roses on her head, Lyanna stopped—and waited.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is not beta'd, so there may be some typos. Sorry this isn't quite up to par with the last chapter (transitions kill me); I've been busy with finals and such. Anyway, please enjoy my self-indulgence. Comments and kudos are appreciated. :)

Lyanna would have been lying if she said she wasn’t terrified. Even beneath the protection of the white flag that Martyn held, her heart thundered and sweat began to cluster beneath the tight dress. She wished she had worn her tunic—or, better yet, she wished she hadn’t agreed to this at all and had run off to join Benjen at the Wall Danny-Flint-style when he had visited before the war. She swallowed, trying not to imagine the many ways this could go wrong. If the Prince wanted to kill her, he could easily do so; he had an army at his back, while she had only a handful of men and a castle full of women and children.

Lyanna herself might very well have starved to death before she surrendered Winterfell, but when even the children had begun to look gaunt she had acquiesced to her advisors’ pleas. They had been begging her to surrender since the first moon, when the supplies had begun to run low. She had asked them if they were so eager for their own deaths, and Martyn had replied, _“If we are going to die, let us die honorably—like men; let us not starve until we are but piles of bones.”_ Lyanna almost asked, _“If men die honorably, how do women die?”_ but it would have wasted what little time they had left to have asked a question she already knew the answer to. Women died in pools of their own blood, giving their lives in exchange for a son that would grow up to rape and pillage and burn; a son that would die like a man, an honorable end to an honorable life. Women died with no one to cling to their corpses—it was, after all, always wives and mothers and sisters who wailed over dead soldiers’ bodies.

As for herself, Lyanna did not want to die today. In fact, Lyanna would rather not die in the near future at all—but if she were to die, she would make damn sure that she took Rhaegar Targaryen with her, and _his_ death would not be an honorable one. 

Prince Rhaegar, with his silver hair and black armor, was as beautiful as they said. His hair swirled elegantly in the breeze, framing a face that was all jawbone and self-importance and roguish eyebrows. His eyes seemed more indigo than purple in the mid-morning light, and the sun, rising to Lyanna’s right, cut sharp shadows across half of his face. With his deathly pale skin and angled features, he looked foreign—almost inhuman, like the Others in those stories Nan used to whisper to Lyanna.

The fact that the Prince was beautiful made Lyanna hate him more.

She breathed in slowly through her nose, trying to calm her heart, which pounded maniacally against her ribcage as if it wanted to haul itself out of her body and kill Rhaegar Targaryen with arteries and blood alone.

It looked so easy, to reach down into her boot and fling her dagger at the two inches of space between the Prince’s chin and the beginning of his breastplate. She knew just how to angle it to hit a vital vein, and she wouldn’t miss—she never missed. But the Prince’s guards would likely catch her sudden movement and grow suspicious, and even if they didn’t, she would lose her life and her men’s. Instead of causing bodily harm, she settled for glaring fiercely at the Prince.

In return, the Prince twisted his lips in an insincere smile, the picture of courtly grace.

“Lyanna Stark,” he greeted coolly. He did not call her Queen. He did not even call her Lady, and though Lyanna couldn’t care less about the use of honorifics, the sound of her name sounded strange and empty from his lips without being preceded by _Queen._

Two could play at this game, and though Lyanna knew she was in no position to to play games, she found herself suddenly filled with a cold fury and didn’t particularly care about the rules. Without missing a beat, she ground out, “Rhaegar Targaryen.” Lyanna intentionally left off any deference to his position as Prince, neglecting even to call him _Your Grace_. It was a rash move that Brandon would have surely appreciated, and for a moment Lyanna’s chest squeezed in grief. A few of the Prince’s men muttered angrily, but Lyanna ignored them. Let them think she was just a mannerless Northern wildling. Let them underestimate her.

The Prince just smiled wider, eyes crinkling, and was silent.

Finally, Lyanna added, with just a touch of sarcasm, “I trust your stay in the North has been pleasant.”

“ _Remarkably_ so,” the Prince replied, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was returning her sarcasm. The thought almost made her reach for her dagger to carve off his pretty mouth. Lyanna wasn’t quite sure how negotiations were supposed to go, but she was fairly certain this was not it. She wanted this over with.

“Our surrender comes with terms,” she began brusquely. “You must give me your word that not a single one of my people will come to harm as a result of the actions of you or your soldiers. My people are not to blame, and they have suffered enough.”

One of the Prince’s men snorted in disbelief, and she sent him a quelling look. The Prince eyed her thoughtfully. “You are not in a place to be making demands,” he returned, “but it is not my wish to cause undue suffering.” The brief pause felt heavy in the air, as if Lyanna could reach out and feel its weight in her palm. Then, with a delicate gesture of his long, gloved fingers, the Prince murmured, “You have my word.”

Lyanna swallowed. She had anticipated more of a fight—she knew very well that Winterfell was in no shape for a conditional surrender, and that the Targaryen army would be hungering for the spoils of war they no doubt fancied themselves entitled to. To have the Prince agree so easily to such a large request threw Lyanna off, and for a moment all words escaped her. Quickly, she pulled herself together, resisting her urge to wrap her cloak tighter around herself. She lifted her chin haughtily, as if she had expected the Prince to agree all along. “Good. I require a few hours to ready the castle; the gates shall open when the sun is level with the highest mountain top.”

With that, Lyanna began to wheel her horse around, by the Prince’s voice stopped her short. It was soft, laced with something that sounded suspiciously like guilt. “Queen Lyanna—”

Lyanna turned again, a muscle in her jaw twitching.

“I have your brother’s body.”

Lyanna’s heart stopped its frantic pounding for a moment, then resumed with a vengeance. It seemed that there was nothing tethering Lyanna to the ground—the reins in her hands felt brittle, breakable; her horse snuffling gently beneath her felt worlds away. Everything was quiet. The sun reflecting on the snow was so bright it hurt her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to blink. Her eyes began to sting, but she held them open. She couldn’t close them; she couldn’t look at anything but the snow, bright and clean and familiar. She wanted to want to hurt someone—she reached for the spark of anger that had forced her to keep moving the past six moons—but instead, all she could feel was a cold, fuzzy whiteness. Vaguely, she was aware that her chest was fluttering with quick, shallow breaths, but she couldn’t hear her panicked breathing. All she could hear was _body body body,_ the Prince’s clear, dooming voice vibrating so loudly she wanted to rip off her ears. There was just one body, then—she knew instinctively it was Brandon. _Body._ Just one. Maybe Ned had fled before the battle even begun. Maybe he found Benjen at the wall. Stoic, stubborn Ned—maybe he was the smartest of them all. Maybe he _lived_.

But Brandon—Lyanna’s breath caught in her throat. Somehow, it seemed utterly _wrong_ that Brandon’s body would exist after death at all. Brandon, who was constantly moving and laughing, whose face was never neutral, whose hands painted marvelous pictures as he talked. The thought of his still, lifeless body made Lyanna want to be sick. She didn’t want the body. It wasn’t his—it wasn’t his, but somehow, it belonged to her the way that Brandon had. Lyanna wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once. Beautiful, terrible, impulsive Brandon—she would have killed him for his selfishness if he weren’t already dead. She had complained so often of his selfishness that once Brandon had had turned to her, his eyes dark and serious, and said, _“Lya, why do you only hate the things about me that you see in yourself?”_

She had hit him, then, hard enough to leave his cheek split and purpling, and walked away without another word, but now Lyanna regretted it. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to hit him again, but harder. She wanted to tell him that sometimes when she looked at him, it felt so much like looking in a mirror that it hurt—that Lyanna was never good at being a Lady, but the one Lady-like trait she could never escape was picking out her flaws when faced with a mirror. She wanted to tell him that she hated him for getting away with things she never could; she hated him for his affairs and his arrogance and his stupid, stupid honor. She hated how much he looked like father when he told her she really ought to think about the consequences of her actions, and how much he looked like her when he argued, and how much he looked like Ned when he apologized (it was always Brandon that apologized after they fought, but she had never seen him apologize to anyone but her). She hated his easy grin and his constant teasing and how the only times he took anything seriously always ended with her crying. She had hated when he began to grow a beard, hated how he had teased, _“You’re only angry because you can’t imitate me for once,”_ (he had been right, and she hated him for it, but he had also been wrong: she could never imitate him, because whenever she did, she was criticized where he was praised, and, besides, half the time it was _he_ who imitated _her_ ). She hated him for his selfishness, and she hated him for his honor, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of guilt. She could never be as honorable as him, even if she wanted to. If he were in her position, he would have killed himself before surrendering—he would have fallen on his sword, or else starved to death and taken half the castle with him. The was no honor in surrender.

Lyanna didn’t hate Brandon. She resented him; she grieved for him; she missed him desperately, but she didn’t hate him. Brandon had been right. She only hated him for showing her the worst parts of herself.

Lyanna felt the weight of eyes upon her, and blinked finally, her eyes dry and stinging.

“Brandon.” It wasn’t a question. She knew it would be him.

The Prince, watching her carefully with those strange eyes, nodded. “The body will be brought in as soon as the gates are open, so you can pay your respects.”

It was surprising that they had bothered to bring his body back, although she supposed it also served the purpose of quelling any rumors of his survival; it was more strategic than kind. Lyanna waited for as long as she could, dreading the answer, before blurting, “What about Ned?”

“We searched, but we couldn’t find his body,” the Prince said slowly. “He is presumed dead. Ser Arthur said that he saw Eddard in the final half of the battle, but he had suffered many injuries. The odds of his survival—it’s impossible.”

Lyanna looked to the man to the Prince’s right, who was nodding in confirmation, and her ears began ringing. Out of all of them, Ned deserved to live the most. Ned, who had voted against calling the bannermen. He couldn’t have died.

Lyanna was going to throw up.

She cast a final glance at the Prince, who was gazing at her apologetically, and she wheeled her horse around wordlessly. She made it out of sight before she slithered ungracefully off her horse and emptied the contents of her stomach into the snow, managing miraculously not to get any on her fine clothing. She kneeled, heaving, for a few moments until her men caught up with her, then she stood abruptly. Martyn looked pale, and he moved as if he was going to get off his horse and embrace her, but Lyanna knew that if he did, she would burst into tears.

She shook her head, mounting her mare. Her men turned to her expectantly, and she turned to look at Winterfell, dark and imposing in the clear white snow. She nudged her horse into a trot.

“We have a feast to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering how they're gonna manage a feast when they're practically starving to death, Rhaegar sent a few food caravans before the surrender as a gesture of good faith, I just haven't had an opportunity to mention it in the story yet and I don't want to force it in (forced exposition makes me want to never see the light of day again).


End file.
